The Secrets Series
by 7thAngel96
Summary: “No one keeps a secret so well as a child” –Victor Hugo. A canon of dissembling in seven parts. Warnings: non-graphic depictions of abuse.
1. Oedipus has got nothing on me

1. Matt ruminates on his relationship with Annie and his beliefs about the paternity of Ruthie and the twins.

"Mama's boy." It's such an innocuous seeming phrase; it conjures up images of the 40 year-old man who still lives at home, or the senior in high school whose mother picks out his outfit everyday. I've been called a 'mama's boy' before. If only they knew how right they were. My mom buys me pants, I lived at home until I was 22, and I love my mother, but it's so much more than that.

I remember a time in junior high when mom and dad used to fight a lot. I was probably 11 or so. I wasn't all that close with dad, never really have been, but around this time I was really close with mom. She would help me with my homework, we'd do the grocery shopping together, she'd make me special breakfasts on Saturday mornings – typical mama's boy sort of things. One night when I was sleeping she came into my room. Memory is a funny thing; while most of that night is a blur, I remember so vividly the strangest details: the thin strip of light coming under the door from the hall, the squeak of mattress springs shifting under added weight, the smell of sweet, floral shampoo, the soft scratch of flannel pyjama bottoms being pulled down shaking legs. I remember those things.

It happened again after that. It may have gone on for weeks, months, a year, I really don't know. All I knew was that mom loved me, that I was her good boy. She told me that every time. It stopped abruptly, I think right around the time that Ruthie arrived. Ruthie with her dark skin and darker hair – hair like mine. I've wondered about that often. I don't really recall mom being pregnant, but there's a lot from that time that I don't really recall. The twins I know for sure; mom and dad weren't sleeping together when those two happened, (The walls are mighty thin in our house and you can find out a lot without trying. Even more if you do try.) but she did pay me one last visit before I moved out. It felt different, being old enough to know it was wrong changed a lot I suppose. One thing was the same, though. The soft, soothing litany spilling forth from her lips hadn't changed at all: Matt, my darling, my sweetie, my precious – _my good boy._


	2. De donde vengo

2. Ruthie knows that families are built on more than biology, but she's pretty sure the foundation should never be made from lies.

In school, my old school, Eleanor Roosevelt, we learned about genetics. That German monk guy Mendel and his plants. Dominant and recessive and how most parts of us are due to lots of different genes working together. Not eye colour, though; eye colour is just one pair. I'd never thought about my parents' eye colour before. I was curious when I got home, so I checked mom right away; hers were blue. Blue is recessive, so that meant that for me to have brown eyes, dad had to have brown eyes too, to cover up the blue gene from mom.

Dad came home late that night. I was already in bed before he got home, but I'd left my lamp on so that I would have enough light to see by when he came in. As soon as I heard the door to my room open, I pretended to be asleep. When he leaned over to kiss me goodnight I opened my eyes just wide enough to see his– blue as the sky and the sea.

I have these weird blurry memories. They almost feel like dreams, like I've just woken up and they're slipping away from me. I remember heat and darkness and wisps of a language that sounds familiar but I can't understand the words. Sometimes I have dreams that feel like these memories, but sharper and clearer; I'm in some kind of van or something. It's really bumpy and hot and there are too many people crammed in there with me. It smells funny, kind of bad like a stable or the elephant house at the zoo. Someone is holding me tight and whispering to me in the familiar lilty words. I think it might be a prayer. Then the bumping stops and there is bright bright light and someone shouting in the language that I know but don't know. I see a flash of blue sky and sun-scorched sands and a prickly cactus standing crooked against the wind. Then I wake up.

We start learning foreign languages this year. I wanted to take Spanish; a lot of California's population speaks it, so it made the most sense. I told mom and dad, and mom almost dropped the plate she was washing and she and dad shared 'a look.' I'm taking French. In my Civics class we have to do projects on important issues for the presidential campaign. I got assigned immigration and when I told dad, he looked like he was about to have a stroke. The next class period my teacher, Ms. Corwin, said she needed someone to research tax cuts and could I please do that instead? There are no pictures of my mother pregnant with me.

I don't know what all this means, but this much I do know: my parents both have blue eyes, two of Mendel's white-flowered plants never made a purple-flowered one, and sometimes I dream of the desert.


	3. To see hir is to love hir

3. Nothing in Mary's life has prepared her for Carlos' confession that he is transgendered and wants to begin living as a woman.

For all the stuff Glenoak has in it, it's still a 'small town' in a lot of ways. People are pretty traditional, I guess a little conservative. It was a nice place to grow up; we had our fair share of drama but nothing too scary ever happened. Dad did get shot once, but still. Basically I grew up pretty sheltered. New York is really different from Glenoak, though. I have met more types of people in New York than I even knew existed when I was in high school. I mean, my husband used to be homeless, for pete's sake! That sure freaked out mom and dad. That plus the fact that he's Hispanic and Catholic. Although I think Matt softened the blow for me on that one, what with marrying a Jew and converting and everything.

Something tells me that Matt becoming Jewish will pale in comparison to what I have to tell them, though. I mean, how do I say to them "Hey mom and dad, guess what? My husband thinks he's supposed to be a chick."? Yeah, I'm really sure dad's heart can take hearing that one. Mine barely could.

I don't think I had ever met a gay person before I became a flight attendant. I mean, I'm pretty sure now that there were some in high school, but no one is really 'out' in Glenoak. I certainly had never seen a drag queen, let alone a real transsexual. That made it a bit of a shock when I came home early to try and surprise my husband, only to find him decked out in make-up, a wig, and pearls and wearing my nicest black dress while making himself a peanut butter sandwich.

What do you do in that situation, even after he sits you down and explains so gently over and over that he never meant to hurt you but that this is who his is and he really just wants to be able to be himself with you? What do you do when everything you ever learned as a kid is playing on repeat in surround sound in your head to the deafening beat of WRONG WRONG WRONG? I cried then. A lot. He said that this wasn't how he'd wanted me to find out, but that he'd been wanting to tell me soon because he was going to start hormones and he wanted to live as a woman all the time now. As 'Carla,' he said.

I still haven't given him my answer. I'm just not equipped to have to deal with this. We barely even talked about _sex_ in my house, let alone the intricacies of the full spectrum of human sexuality. I mean, does it make me a lesbian if I stay? Am I something even worse if I leave? I finally had my life sorted out and I was on the right track. I was living the dream that I'd had since I was a kid: loving husband, our own home, talk of starting a family. But now that's all falling apart around me and I'm standing alone in the wreckage back to being the old screw-up Mary again. I still love him, but I'm just not sure if I can love _her_. I think what I might be most afraid of is finding out that I can.


	4. Angels are quite ample cause to cry

4. David wonders if something is wrong with Sam, and though no one else seems willing to admit it, if they might not be quite so identical after all

Sam and I share everything: clothes, toys, bath time, even DNA (whatever that is). We're identical, which means we are the same. Or we should be. But sometimes I think Sam's a little different from me. He's shorter for one thing, but mommy says he just hasn't hit his growth spurt yet. We're different in other ways, though, too. I like to play with toy cars, but Sam likes to stare at the wall. I build with Legos while Sam kneels on the chair next to me and rocks back and forth. He doesn't look at people when they talk to him. Mommy told us that this is rude, but Sam does it anyway. Mommy says he's just shy and that he'll grow out of it.

Last year mommy and daddy came back from parent-teacher conferences in a bad mood. I asked mommy what was wrong and she said our teacher wanted to make Sam see a speech therapist. I asked what that was and she said it was a person who helps people talk better. I said that Sam didn't need that; maybe he didn't talk that good, but I understood him just fine. Daddy said that it's maybe he didn't talk that well, and that it's great I can understand him but no one else can and what the heck is so wrong with just getting the kid some help Annie since he's 6 now and he's still practically unintelligible. Mommy just went upstairs. I went into the living room and found Sam sitting behind the couch. He likes it there. I tried to hug him but he just stood really stiff and stared at the ceiling.

When we were little mommy taught us that there are two kinds of angels; one kind is dead people in heaven like Grandma, but the other kind is special people here on Earth that God sends down to make our world more beautiful. She said kids in wheelchairs are angels, and the ones in the special classes at school are angels, too. I asked her if we were angels and she just smiled and patted my head and said we were _her_ little angels but not in the same way those other people she mentioned were angels. Then she stopped paying attention to me because Sam had pulled the knob off of the cabinet door and was trying to poke himself in the eye with it.

Tonight are parent-teacher conferences again. This time mommy comes in shouting and slams the door behind her. Daddy sighs and sits down at the table. I'm hiding behind the doorway so that I can listen. Mommy says that that woman is crazy and she knows nothing about Sam and there's no way Sam's going into special ed. and if Mrs. Rolph thinks he is well she's got another think coming. Daddy yells that maybe if they weren't inbred freaks and mommy yells over him that don't he dare say that to her and daddy just sighs again and says that maybe it would be for the best since special ed. would be able to deal with him better and he could learn life skills so that someday he could actually be independent and functional. I hear a noise and I turn around and see Sam standing next to me. He's staring right at me and his eyes are all big. I tell him I know and that I'm scared too.

Later we are in our room ready for bed and mommy comes to tuck us in. She tucks in Sam first and then she comes over to me. I ask her if Sam is an angel and she says yes sweetie, Sam's an angel. I ask her if since Sam and I are identical, does this mean I am an angel too? She doesn't say anything, but her eyes get all shiny and she smiles sort of sadly at me before she kisses me goodnight and leaves. I whisper Sam, Sam are you awake? He doesn't answer me, but just stares at the ceiling and rocks back and forth.


End file.
